


if it feels good

by schrodingers_zombie



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), First Kiss, Hedonism, M/M, Other, Pining, i should probably tag this so people can find it but tbh i don't know with what, it's about hedonism, more than anything, this isn't like... sex i swear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-07-08 22:17:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19876948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schrodingers_zombie/pseuds/schrodingers_zombie
Summary: 'Cause I wasted so much timeOn things that I don't likeDon't spend the rest of your lifePlaying a game of hide and seekCan I get a peek?What's underneath?I'm kind of hopin' you're a freak like mePleasure is such a human thing, isn't it? It's the whole reason why temptation works, and why being Good is so hard. And Aziraphale has gone a bit native in his millennia on Earth.





	if it feels good

**Author's Note:**

> this fic was inspired and fueled by Julia Nunes' song _feels good_ which gave me big aziraphale feels. so i sat down and listened to it a few times and wrote this. enjoy, hopefully!

It had never been a priority in Heaven to enjoy things. It’s not that the very idea was forbidden really, just that – well – it was a _job_ , at the end of the (just-invented) day. And if you were doing it all just because you wanted to, it defeated the purpose, didn’t it? Or… what appeared to be the purpose, at least. It was all very unclear, sometimes. Some might say ineffable.

In _his_ beginning, which came very soon after _the_ beginning, Aziraphale hadn’t had any problem with that. Enjoyment hadn’t really been a thing, then. It was only after that initial temptation, the whole appley business, when it really started showing up and being a nuisance. Can’t exactly have temptation without the promise of something good, you know. Eve certainly _enjoyed_ the apple, however briefly. Adam enjoyed the feeling of deadly weight in his hand as he swung a newly gifted flaming sword. And maybe it wasn’t quite enjoyment yet, but the primordial stirrings of perhaps something that might become a distant ancestor of the feeling (although tempered by the immediate forebear of deep, deep anxiety) were waking up in Aziraphale as he stood beside that wily serpent under all that newfangled rain.

Funnily, or perhaps inevitably, it began with another apple. He had been performing some minor miracles around a bazaar and alright, it wasn’t officially on his to-do list but “generally spread well-being” was, right, and there was something about the young child standing by their parent behind the stall that tugged at Aziraphale’s heartstrings. And so he miracle up some coins to give to them in exchange for an apple – to keep up appearances, of course – and, well, he couldn’t _not_ eat it, that would look awfully suspicious, wouldn’t it?

The apple itself wasn’t that good. Anyone today, used to the genetically modified sweetness of a Honeycrisp or a Granny Smith, would find it overly sour and a little too hard. But Aziraphale had never actually used his body’s tastebuds before, so none of that mattered to him. It tasted bright, and colorful, and vibrant, and all these adjectives that rather seemed to be more appropriate to vision than flavor. Angels shouldn’t be able to be tempted, not like humans could be, but… for a split second, Aziraphale understood. Like, he _got_ it.

Then he got scared and didn’t try anything for a couple hundred years, but that’s understandable.

* * *

The next time was in the 13th century – the first one, that is. Egypt. Well, just outside Egypt. Really Aziraphale was only supposed to make sure they all crossed the sea alright, and that the Egyptian army didn’t, but then the people had begun celebrating. And he had planned to leave at that point, honestly, but someone had grabbed his hand and pulled him into a circle and _he_ hadn’t been dancing, himself, but the music of the tambourines… the giddy smiles on their faces… their grateful voices, lifting in song… they were so _happy_. And at an intensity he had never imagined possible for a heavenly being, so was Aziraphale. _For them_ , he clarified to himself. He was appreciative of what She had done for them. Caring for others was Good, so of course as an angel he would feel happy that they were happy. That’s all it was. And when he nibbled on a piece of flat, dry bread that was handed to him, well, the bread was supposed to be part of the whole shebang, right? The Lord had been very proud of it. So then it was okay that he took seconds. And let a few laughing youths spin him around, almost (but not quite) as if it was he who was dancing. It was the angelic thing to do, really.

* * *

It was around the year 0 when Aziraphale first partook of that very Earthly delight known as “getting absolutely wasted”. At that point he had grown more comfortable with oh-so-very-much enjoying the pleasures of good food. After all, nobody had ever reprimanded him for it, so it must not have been all that wrong. Yes, granted, he was technically sullying his heavenly form with gross earthly matter, and yes, perhaps some would describe a particularly marvelous thing of flaky dough and nuts and sweet syrup as “tempting” or even “sinful”, but really all he was doing was appreciating the Lord’s creation. Hamotzi and all that. The fact that these foods – especially the sweet ones – made him feel so good was just a happy coincidence.

The alcohol (it was wine, to be nice and accurate, but at a time when fancy names and long-ago years weren’t used to identify them, as wine snobbery and sticky labels hadn’t been discovered yet) came into plot relevance at a cozy little celebration after the circumcision of a baby that Aziraphale was supposed to keep an eye on. There were all sorts of blessings that went along with these things, and he would be remiss not to participate. One skeptical sniff, a prayer and a few careful sips later, Aziraphale found that he rather liked the flavorful beverage, so the one glass of wine for purely holy reasons became two, then three, then many. He knew that humans who drank too much of it would get all funny and stupid, but he was an angel. There was no way these things would influence him the same way, he was sure.

He was wrong. With a body that had never even come close to being drunk before, very soon he was standing on a table, making a very impassioned toast about babies, and stars, and Heaven, and perhaps apples and snakes came up, or perhaps none of that came up and it was all about those fantastic figs he’d had last week. It was all very embarrassing for the mother and father (to this day, Aziraphale wasn’t a hundred percent sure what was the deal with the baby’s parentage, and never felt comfortable asking) but Aziraphale felt amazing about it. It was only the next day, as he was nursing an unexpected hangover the old-fashioned way, that he considered that maybe Heaven wouldn’t appreciate “well, it’s fun” as a good enough reason for such wanton consumption.

Still, it didn’t stop him from going out and buying several containers of wine to store in a cellar, just in case his angelic duties ever required him to throw a party.

* * *

About 33 years later, he took a demon’s hand, led him slowly away from a crowd. They shared a bottle of wine in silence. Nobody had handed the bottle to Aziraphale this time. Maybe the demon was really just doing his job and tempting the angel. Maybe the angel was just doing _his_ job and inspiring peace in the demon. Maybe both were just getting desperately, numbingly drunk with a friend, because the mindlessness of being drunk felt better than what they had just seen humans be so horrifyingly willing to do.

* * *

They met again a few years later, but right before that, Aziraphale discovered the pleasure that could be found in just relaxing. Rome. He was there to influence some boy’s future, and he was trying to get a feel for the culture before starting, when he stumbled upon one of those very Roman bathhouses and decided to investigate what made them so popular. Perhaps an earlier version of Aziraphale would have crafted some kind of excuse that maybe somebody important would be there, some opportunity for a really good miracle, but to be honest, he had been feeling particularly tense lately and felt he rather deserved a nice day and a good meal before getting back to work. It wasn’t all selfish, he still somewhat felt the need to reassure himself, it was just ensuring that he would be at his best.

Aziraphale sat in the steam and breathed deep and thought about things loosely. They were thoughts that at any other time might make him regret everything, turn his life around, start acting like a… proper angel. But the warmth softened him enough that he could let the thoughts float by.

He enjoyed this immensely.

He had grown accustomed to enjoying _things_ , like good food and good wine and a well-made outfit and well-written poetry. But this was different. He inhaled slowly, trying not to scare away the undefined thought.

He enjoyed this _feeling_. He enjoyed being present in this space. He enjoyed the way the heat and water made his chest feel light, not knotted up and tight at the thought of doing this all wrong.

Oh. He enjoyed this body. He enjoyed being here. Not just in the bathhouse, but… _here_.

Aziraphale moved on to the next room of the bathhouse and very deliberately thought about oysters instead.

* * *

You just couldn’t get proper crepes anywhere but Paris. And Aziraphale was craving something sweet and buttery like only the French could provide. It wasn’t his fault that their little revolution had grown into something quite this terrible. But then Crowley was there, and Aziraphale was only mildly surprised to find that he was just as happy to see the demon as he was to eat those heavenly (and if anyone could say that, it was him) crepes. Well, they may have been enemies, but they had known and worked with each other for a very long time, and Aziraphale was a being of… positive feelings. Of course when it wasn’t about business he could hardly expect himself _not_ to appreciate a moment with the one other being on Earth who understood who he was. And at this point, it was fair to say that they did more than just understand each other. Er. That is, they were… well, they were friends, he supposed. He had to admit they were something like friends.

They had crepes together. Rather, Aziraphale had crepes while Crowley sat and watched him intently. It made Aziraphale a little self-conscious to be watched like that; it felt almost voyeuristic. The way Crowley’s mouth quirked into the ghost of a maybe-smile at Aziraphale’s little noises of satisfaction. But he did enjoy it: the company, the conversation they had over drinks, the way Crowley mumbled and hesitated as they parted as if there was something he wanted to say other than a quick “see ya”. Yes, Aziraphale mused to himself as he made his way back home. It felt good to have a friend.

* * *

In the 1880s, Aziraphale found himself craving something again, but Crowley wasn’t there. So he learned how to dance.

* * *

Ever since Rome, Aziraphale had occasionally enjoyed the pleasure of baths, both communal and private, but sometime after the Second World War he had made it a habit. Any time it all felt a bit much, he would sink into the hot water and let the steam soften his heart and thoughts until he could breathe easily again.

And now he was letting the water hold him and letting the thoughts float by, under piles of bubbles that smelled like apples and cardamom and smoke. If he looked too hard at the thoughts he would feel it all weighing down on him again and he couldn’t bear that right now so he focused on his enjoyment of the pleasantly foaming water and watched the thoughts go by out of the corner of his mind.

So, the world was ending. It really was. In only a few years. And Heaven thought there was no way to stop it – that there was no need to stop it – but Crowley and he were _doing_ something, had to be. The boy was so normal. A bit of a pest, true, but in a very human way.

Aziraphale closed his eyes momentarily and let the warmth of the water wash over him, noticed the steam rising off him. Comfortable. Safe.

But what if they didn’t succeed? What if he failed, and Armageddon did start? What then? What could they possibly do then?

Aziraphale stretched out his limbs and savored the wrinkles on the skin of his fingers, how oddly human that pruniness was. Perfectly imperfect.

What if all this was his fault? If it wasn’t that the endeavor itself was fruitless, but that _he_ couldn’t do it? If he wasn’t good enough to influence the boy towards the right side? If he wasn’t good enough? If he wasn’t Good?

And then that thought was too much and he felt his chest tighten and his breath got hard and too fast and the water shocked itself ice cold and…

Aziraphale thought of Crowley.

Crowley would make him feel better if he was here, the way he always did. He knew how to say everything so it didn’t feel so much like _everything_. So it felt safe. For a demon, he really was so good at that. The water grew warmer. Aziraphale pictured the demon there with him, grimacing at the water but then melting into the heat, his sunglasses fogging up with steam. The bath wasn’t very big, Aziraphale noticed vaguely. Barely room for both of them. He exhaled slowly. Crowley would bring a bottle of something, champagne maybe, and they could get drunk there together. Crowley could hold him tightly until his chest opened up again and let him breathe. His heart softened, his mind cleared.

He didn’t let himself think it anywhere else, but the returning steam coaxed it out of him. He wanted Crowley to be there. He wanted Crowley.

Aziraphale held that thought, that feeling of love, in his heart for a long, warm moment, enjoyed how it fit between his heartbeat, how it bloomed in his chest.

Then he let it go, got out of the tub and tried to forget it.

* * *

So the end of the world had come and then promptly un-come, and they had chosen their faces wisely, and angels had dined at the Ritz; you know that part. And it was good. And Aziraphale felt so _happy_. Maybe he was running off that high of sudden exhilarating freedom and joy when he paused, as Crowley was dropping him off back at the bookshop, and put a hand on Crowley’s arm, hyper-aware of every sensation.

“Come in,” he said. “Have a drink.”

And he felt like he was floating in warm water and fragrant bubbles when Crowley took his hand and followed him in without an argument. They sat by each other in silence for a few moments that felt like the eternity Crowley had talked about all those years ago (had it really only been eleven?). Neither of them made any move to get any sort of drink.

Aziraphale carefully avoided looking directly at Crowley, but he imagined how the demon must be looking. An old, anxious part of his mind pictured Crowley looking annoyed, frustrated, rolling his eyes, getting up to leave. But at least the last thing wasn’t happening, and Aziraphale knew Crowley well enough to know the rest wasn’t either. He would be looking at the angel the way he always did, some part of Aziraphale knew. A question, no, a plea written in the lines of his face. Thinking those sunglasses hid a single thing, when they so clearly didn’t. Aziraphale really couldn’t believe how he hadn’t seen it before, all those millennia together.

In the end, Crowley spoke first, or tried to.

“Look, angel. Uh. The thing is. I – uh – th-” He took a breath. Aziraphale turned to look at him as Crowley continued. “The world isn’t the same anymore. It’s different. We’re different. I don’t want to have to keep… I don’t want to keep running. I don’t want _you_ to run. I don’t want–”

Aziraphale leaned in and kissed him.

He had spent six thousand years learning to do things, sometimes, just because they felt good, and he was tired of the guilt and the fear. He wore expensive clothes, carefully maintained their condition through centuries of use, because they made him feel good about himself. He savored cakes and sushi and cocoa and fancy wines because it felt _good_. He hoarded books, just for himself, so _selfishly_ , and it was good.

Crowley made him feel good, and Aziraphale was damned if he wouldn’t enjoy every single part of this.

“What _do_ you want, my dear?” he said.

Crowley was blushing a hot red, hands grabbing desperately at Aziraphale’s jacket. “You, angel, you, _you_ ,” he said breathlessly. “I want you–”

Aziraphale stopped his mouth with another kiss, deep and soft and making up for 6000 years of pretending, of wanting, of needing. It was stupid and reckless; it was the kind of thing that only a few days ago would have made Aziraphale’s chest tighten and choke just to imagine. But Crowley was right. Things were different now. Now, Aziraphale just smiled into Crowley’s lips and thought he tasted apple.

It had never been a priority in Heaven to enjoy things, but they weren’t in Heaven. They weren’t in Hell, either. They were on Earth, together, in each other’s arms, _finally_. And it felt good.


End file.
